


Roses on the Floor

by Charmtion



Series: We are Wolves [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alyssa's Tears, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Godswood, Mild Sexual Content, Parentage Reveal, R Plus L Equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-17 16:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18102482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: “This place, this tree, its leaves and roots, the rocks and mountains that make up northern blood —thatis the song of Lyanna Stark.” A half-hitched sob at the back of his throat as he breathes the scent of her skin. “The song of your mother — andyoursong, too, Jon Snow.”The world may be changed, but the hearts of wolves stay constant//Jon seeks solace after a revelation of ice and fire; Sansa finds him in the godswood.





	Roses on the Floor

Water — still as the black pool in the godswood — that is what she is as the sun spills frost-feathered rays upon this silent meeting: ebony and ivory, ruby and dragonglass, man and woman. _Water_ — deep, quiet, nary a ripple finger-streaked across its surface — turning her eyes cool as the ice-edged leaves at her feet.

He does not stir as she rustles through the trees. Sentinel, oak, ironwood; the heart tree is a blot of rust amongst black-knifed leafless boughs. There he stands, a gloved hand resting on the bone-white bark. Shoulders stooped beneath the weight of his fur-trimmed cloak and all the worries of a warrior.

She makes to speak — a word soft-winged as a fledgling from the nest — but she swallows it down till it beats its feathers at her belly. There is a time for speech and a time for silence. Wordless now, she moves forward to sit a moss-flecked stone beside the pool; deep, quiet, a ripple finger-streaked across its surface as she breaks the black glass of its silence with a delicate fingertip.

 

*

 

Earlier, their brother spoke and they fell silent. Words slid from his mouth as polished knives into skin, as pale petals to blood-dark soil. Words: princes, prophecies, promises — ice and fire, dragon’s breath and winter’s rose, frost and flame worked into ash and ache, a song — a _son_.

Words, just _words_.

Yet there they sit real as roses on the floor, blue as frost amongst the red-gold leaves of the godswood; a clutch of pale petals hiding a nest of thorns.

He runs his hand over the weirwood, bone-white bark made smooth by centuries of palms and prayers. Counts the times he has added his own: as solemn-eyed child finding solace amongst crooked roots from a lady’s spite, as half-grown pup kneeling for blessing before journeying to become a brother, as scar-mapped warrior drinking the bitter taste of war and wound and blade and betrayal as if it is sweet as summerwine.

A thousand prayers, a thousand palm-prints smoothing a thousand different threads — pain, anger, grief, loneliness — till the tree was a tangle of his own heart. He plucks at them now, fingertips trailing invisible strands across bone-white bark as she sets a song of ripples across the glossy black pool.

 

*

 

“There is no weirwood at the Eyrie, only water and white marble… a weeping woman who keeps her flowerbeds well-watered.” Soft-winged as a fledgling from the nest, still her own voice makes her start. “Alyssa was her name. In life she never shed a tear, in spite of what she saw. In death, the gods punished her for it. Six thousand years, she has wept a waterfall that sets its mist over the soil where all those she loved are buried.”

His breath is smoke on the icy air. “A statue and a spirit, yet still the gods make her weep.”

“It is a pastime of gods to make women crawl and weep — singers, too… makes for a good story in the eyes of men.” She rises from the moss-flecked stone, dries her fingertips on the fur-trim of her cloak. “They spin their songs just _so_ — a clutch of knights at a tourney, a champion with honour silver as his hair, a doe-eyed maid with a crown of winter roses in her lap… all the fury of blood and fire that followed.”

Snow falls as ash to settle on his shoulders; beneath its white-fingered drape, he is tense as the tree he stands before. “There is no song for _that_ tourney.”

“No, there is not,” she says softly. “But if ever they spin a song of it, they will set the queen of love and beauty on her knees, make her weep and wail… tell me, Jon, have you ever heard a wolf weep?”

His cloak is black and deep as the pool at their feet; but she catches the shiver of his bones beneath its heavy folds as she sets a ripple finger-streaked across its surface. “I have heard a wolf growl and whine and snarl and howl… but I have never heard a wolf weep.”

“ _That_ is the song of her, Jon Snow.” Gently, she lays a kiss to his shoulder; layer upon layer of fur and wool and velvet, yet still he leans into its silk-soft press. “Not a doe-eyed maid with a crown of winter roses in her lap — but a woman proud as the wolf that was her sigil.” She traces the bone-white bark showing between his fingers till he catches her hand in his and grips tight. “This place, this tree, its leaves and roots, the rocks and mountains that make up northern blood — _that_ is the song of Lyanna Stark.” A half-hitched sob at the back of his throat as he breathes the scent of her skin. “The song of your mother — and _your_ song, too, Jon Snow.”

 

*

 

Later, he plays a new song upon her skin. She is stretched moon-white beside him, the curve of her hip a snow-covered hillside beneath the press of his fingers. The fire is burned to embers in the hearth. Still, it sets her hair to ruby flames as she rolls onto her back; he chases the shadows of fire-glow across the moonstone stretch of her belly with his thumbs.

“When will I tell them?” His lips breathe the words as kisses against her throat. “The northmen, the southron court, their silver-haired queen… _what_ will I tell them?”

Quietly, she waits for him to free his face from the crook of her neck; he gazes down at her as she cradles his cheek in a soft-cupped palm. Water — still as the black pool in the godswood — that is what her eyes are in the half-light of the bedchamber. A river pulling him into its rhythm; a lung-deep breath before he _drowns_ in them. _Water_ — deep, quiet, nary a ripple finger-streaked across its surface — washing as a wave of calm the rush of ice and fire burning in his veins.

She feathers her thumb above the shadow of his beard. “You will tell them that you are Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” He rests his brow to hers as she speaks; soft as snowflakes, her words ghost his lips. “You will tell them that you are a Stark, a warrior, a _wolf_.” Sunlit sea, her eyes simmer as the embers in the hearth. “You will tell them all that — because all of it is true, my love.”

Words, just _words_.

Yet there they sit real as roses on the floor, blue as frost amongst the red-worn carpets of the bedchamber; a clutch of pale petals carrying on the current of her voice and landing — feather-light — the arch of her lips as he covers them with his own. _My love_. He can taste it, clear and sweet as water on her tongue.

“With you at my side?”

For a moment, she looks as though she will weep. He thinks of Alyssa damp-eyed amongst the rolling mists of the Vale; water and white marble and godly wrath as payment for a woman’s strength. He makes to speak — a softer rumble to the thunder of his heartbeat — but he swallows it down till it cracks its brass against his ribs. There is a time for speech and a time for silence. Wordless now, he watches in wonder the smile spread warm as the sun across her face; deep, quiet, he follows its stretch with his fingertip.

Her voice is soft as harp-strings. “I will be at your side until I breathe my last, my love.”

In her eyes he sees another song: blue-grey rivers, red-gold leaves, the rocks and mountains that make up northern blood — _their_ song, one of hearth and home and heart tree.

He hears its rhythm alive as rain in the moonlight: the creak of her ribs as she twists into his grip, the rustle of her red-rich hair against the pillows, the glance of her lips beneath his mouth, the mewl in her throat as he parts her where she is hottest, the garbled howl they both make as they move together.

“ _Sansa_.” It tumbles from his lips as a ripple finger-streaked across the still surface of a lake; quietly, she catches at its eddies till they bleed together with her smile pressed against his lips. “My love.”

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Initial inkling of idea inspired by a beautiful sentence from Madeline Miller's _Circe_ :  
> 
>
>> _Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep_...
> 
>   
> 2\. I am not sure how far book-lore permeates show-verse; in case the magnificent, melancholy tale of Alyssa's Tears has not found its way to screens and scripts, [here](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Alyssa_Arryn) is its wikipage.  
>  **NB** : no biting, no growling, no scratching... a softer tone to the one often set by this series. Much is made of Jon as blood and fire and dragon-rider; for me, he will **always** be a wolf, no matter who his father was. I loved writing this piece - hope you enjoyed it, too! 🐺❤️


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